


three seconds to boston

by alewifes



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Lesbian Beverly Marsh, Richie Tozier & Beverly Marsh & Stanley Uris are in a band, Slow Burn, Stanley Uris Has OCD, i try with slow burn but it honestly rarely works out but ill try, reddie AND stanlon centric. both
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23210107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alewifes/pseuds/alewifes
Summary: “This is our biggest show, literally ever, and you want to fucking wing it?” Stanley glares at Richie, who shrugs back.“We’re playing Joyce Manor to a bunch of hipsters at the Hopping Spider, not a thousand people at Madison Square Garden, Stan! If my note is just a tineeyyyy bit flat, literally nobody will fucking notice!”or, Richie, Stan and Bev are in a band and meet their s/o's as a result of the band, kind of.
Relationships: Beverly Marsh/Original Female Character(s), Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon & Stanley Uris, Mike Hanlon/Stanley Uris
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	three seconds to boston

**Author's Note:**

> this first chapter is in stanleys pov for the most part 
> 
> tw for OCD, it's mostly a self projection but stan's battle with it isn't taken lightly. if u feel like it could trigger yours, please be kind to yourself and don't read. 
> 
> other than that, thank u :') tbh this is kind of a trainwreck and a result of social distancing, so its a little choppy but i like it. thank u again

Being in a band was something that Stan had always dreamed of. He had the voice of a twelve year old boy, even at the ripe age of nineteen, and his clothes always fit a bit wrongly. His arms were scrawny, gangly even, and his hair was his only redeeming quality. Nimble fingers plucked at guitar strings with ease because they were so thin, and his fingernails sometimes too long. But Stan always wanted to be in a band. 

His dream came to be tangible when he moved to Lexington, Massachusetts after having graduated high school. Back then, he worked diligently and found himself making excellent, remarkable grades. With stellar recommendations, officer positions in oddity clubs, and his okay record of running track, he was accepted into Boston University early action. That’s exactly how he ended up in the position he’s currently in. 

“Richie, why the  _ fuck _ would you leave your penny board in the middle of the god damn hallway,” Stan’s voice was hoarse, as he had just woke up, and his hands rubbed the throbbing point of his back from where he had fell. Richie sat at their kitchen table innocently, only stuffing another spoonful of lucky charms into his mouth. It was a regular thing for Stan to wake up grumpy, and it was something Richie had gotten used to. 

The circumstances in which they ended up living together were a bit odd, but it stemmed from the fact that Stanley was desperate to not live inside the dorms at his college. Richie had saved up a lot of money and moved to Lexington two months prior to classes starting, so when Stan was searching the classifieds for a roommate, it just so happened the raven headed boy was searching for one desperately. Their small, two bedroom apartment was decorated by Stan and dirtied by Richie, who had a bad habit of leaving his cups, socks, shoes, and random shit laying everywhere, all over. 

He had been in Massachusetts for only a month. But he was absolutely mesmerized. 

Maybe it was the way that everything looked like it was built when Puritanism was still a viable religion, or the fact that the trees swayed with the grace and delicacy of a ballerina on pointe shoes. Downtown Boston made his fingertips tingle with excitement when he stepped foot into his first bookshop cafe. The people didn’t look at him weird when he tapped his fingers three times on the doorway into a building, and nobody questioned why his hands wrapped around his wrists and twisted until they were raw. Maybe Massachusetts felt more like home than his father’s synagogue. 

Growing up, for some reason, the synagogue reminded him of merely a prison for his creativeness. His wild hair contained by a kippah, wild experiences restrained by the idea of being the Rabbi’s son. College was a new frontier. Stan liked that word. 

Words were kind of his thing. Like, sure, his father could make him keep his hair tamed and brushed down the middle, could stop him from leaving the house and getting piss drunk with the kids who went to his high school. But absolutely nobody could reach into his brain and take the words away. The stream of thoughts so constant it was like a river flowing downstream after a big bout of rain, so steady it felt like the rain lasted forever, just going and going and not stopping when he went to sleep, travelling into his dreams and etching in the foundations of his life. The words, words and more words, almost all designed for him to question religion and the government and why his parents cared so much. Words that made him want to run away. 

A song. His thoughts, his words into a song. His fingers plucking a bass instead of getting piss drunk with the people at his high school plucking a bass instead of rebellion plucking a bass as a rebellion singing music drums a future of concerts and getting the words out of his head. 

A future. That’s what brought him here, to Richie, and to Massachusetts. A future outside of Maine. And Massachusetts was his frontier now. Like Lewis and Clark, Richie and Stan off to show the word their band. And Bev. It’s kind of fucked. 

“You’re still writing in that thing?” Richie asks, leaning across the counter to snatch the book in Stan’s hands. They wrestle over it for a second, before Richie’s fingers slip and Stanley yanks it back to his chest. “Damn, dawg, it's f _ iiiiiiii _ ne. I don’t want to see your diary anyways.”

In his hands is a bright pink, bedazzled and sparkled to hell, journal with the lock. They found it in the Minutemen Thrift Store that’s on Barksdale street in the middle of Hanscom, before a gig they did at a coffee shop nearby. And of course, everything in the area is connected to the American Revolution because literally  _ why the fuck would it not be?  _

For the last few months, Stanley has used it as his diary, his place to write songs, and it was honestly just a shit show. His loopy, lopsided handwriting in different colored inks scattered across pages of an old girly diary whose lock had been cut open with a hacksaw. And he wouldn’t even let Richie touch it. 

Opening it up, he looked at the first page. 

  
  


_ This is what happens when you are diagnosed with Obessesive Compulsive Disorder when you are eighteen. You will be upset. Your doctor is insane. Why now why now why now why now. Why I am in a band and eighteen and free to the world and free out of my house so why am I held back again. Why. You will be prescribed Fluvoxomine which means you are no longer as nervous when you touch a park bench, and you wash your hands three times before you eat dinner instead of twelve. When you are diagnosed with Compulsive leaning Obsessive Compulsive Disorder you realise that taking three showers a day is not normal, that raking your fingers across every stove burner before you go to bed is not normal, and twisting the front door lock twenty-seven times until your roommate asks you why you’re just standing in front of the front door isn’t normal. You understand.  _

He closes the book. 

“Whatcha have planned today?” Richie looks over at him from his bowl of cereal, snapping him out of his thoughts. It’s Saturday. 

“Well, first I’m going to go out to Roxbury Crossing to buy some crystal me-”

Richie sucks in a breath and it comes out in a wheeze. “Shut the  _ fuck  _ up,” he bites through another laugh. 

“But yeah, I’m probably gonna just do some homework until the gig. 8:30 right?” Turning to search the kitchen table to search for his metrocard, Stan sighs at the sight of his bass in the corner of the room. 

The bowl that Richie was eating from makes a clang in the sink. Stan only slightly grinds his teeth when the boy goes back to the couch instead of rinsing the milk out. “Yes, 8:30, princess. But I thought we were gonna rehearse at 6 in the Pit?” 

“Oh, yeah, I’ll be there. Bye Bitchie,” he snickers, turning on his toes and going back to his room to get ready. It took him twenty minutes to find an outfit, ten more to find his metrocard ( _ again _ ), five to remember he put his wallet on his doorknob and another five to find his laptop and headphones. Forty minutes, a turtleneck, a pair of beat up overalls and five pairs of vans later, he exited the apartment and into the streets of Lexington to the cafe in Arlington Heights. 

The metro caused him a lot of anxiety when he first moved here. As someone from rural Upstate New York, Stan wasn’t used to the subway, or any public transport for that matter. When he turned sixteen and got his license, it was just him on the windy roads with his friends. Now, it’s him and his metrocard, crowded into small spaces with his headphones in, trying to ignore all the human microbiota that plagued the handle he was hanging onto, or the seat he was sitting on. 

Today the metro was packed. People took all the seats, so he found a place to stand and hang onto one of the beams. Next to him, a woman in a pantsuit was reading a pristine copy of  _ Becoming _ by Michelle Obama, and on the side of her sat a teenage boy who was very clearly asleep. The pole wasn’t sticky today, which was a plus. On Friday, on his way back from class in Boston, Stanley grabbed onto a pole that he didn’t realize had a wad of gum stuck to it, almost puked in front of strangers and washed his hands seventeen times in a row before the skin started peeling from his fingers. 

Finally, the train screeched to a halt, and he pushed his way out of the cart and onto the streets of Arlington in search of  _ Bean Time _ , his favorite cafe. It was small, almost never packed, and had actually good pastries. Everyone in Arlington Heights usually went to the Roasted Granola cafe, so this one had a more loyal customer based, one that Stanley was a part of. He came here every saturday, and every saturday the same person was working. 

“Hey, Eddie!” He waved a hand to the cashier as soon as he got into the door, the boy leaned over the counter with his arms splayed across the marble. He perked as soon as he heard Stanley’s voice, pulling himself upright with a grin. 

“Stan!” With a smile, Eddie started to tap on the register in front of him. “Usual?”

Stanley’s eyes raked over the menu, looking at the options, and again at the case of desserts and pastries. “I think I’ll mix it up today,” Eddie gasped at this proclamation, making the other boy chuckle. “I know, right? I think I’ll stick to my iced matcha, but instead of the muffin, I’ll have a sugar cookie and the turkey and cheese on rye, toasted with mayo.” 

After paying, Stan walked along the outside of the counter, as Eddie made his food behind it. They caught up briefly, Stan staying at the counter for a second after Eddie handed him his food and drink. He was the only customer there, anyways. 

“We have a gig tonight, in Lexington, at eight, it’s at this bar called the  _ Hopping Spider _ . Funky, right? It’s coverband night, you should come!” Eddie looked at him with squinted eyes, raised eyebrows. 

“You know I’m nineteen right?” 

Stan scoffed, playfully rolling his eyes. “Duh. I’m eighteen. The show's eighteen plus, they’ll just put an X on the back of your hand or some shit.”

Eddie bit his lip, looking at the time. It was one, his shift ended at five. “Mind if I bring a couple friends?”

“More the merrier, right?” 

Yeah, of course. 

  
  
  
  


Band practice is always rough. Stan’s always a perfectionist, Richie’s always the opposite, and Bev just wants to slam her drumsticks on shit and pretend like she’s in a movie. 

“This is our biggest show, literally ever, and you want to fucking  _ wing it? _ ” Stanley glares at Richie, who shrugs back. 

“We’re playing Joyce Manor to a bunch of hipsters at the Hopping Spider, not a thousand people at Madison Square Garden, Stan! If my note is just a  _ tineeyyyy _ bit flat, literally nobody will fucking notice!” He throws his hands up in the air, looking back at Bev. 

The ginger girl raises her eyebrows and raises her own up in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just here.” 

“Don’t you find it a little frightening that were an hour and a half out, we barely have a set list, you want to improv the whole thing by connecting songs to football plays and just shouting the first one you think of, and then get our asses to the show fifteen blocks away? Richie, I just want a plan, not even a solid, structured well thought of plan either. Just a piss poor, rickety plan!” 

They stare at each other for a few more seconds, before Richie finally relaxes his shoulders and looks to his best friend with soft eyes. “Come up with a set list, we can run through it and then load up the van.”

Stan gets to work almost immediately, and it’s almost like he’s the glue that holds them together sometimes. Sometimes it’s Richie, sometimes it’s Bev. They’re a well oiled machine. A fucked up, small, ride it until the wheels fall off and then probably put the wheels back on and ride for two more miles until the shit blows up kind of machine. 


End file.
